Sometimes I fear that calling myself an artist depletes me to the very sense of the word.. to the mere idea of a professional terminology. See it from my eyes, an artist is a mediocre being who fetches for poetry in the knots of your hair on your worst days, and the glint in your eyes on your best. I believe art is my refuge.. yes I refuse to tolerate reality. The way sprawled ink speaks to me on a murky day is art; not what the ink is later shaped to be My creations are raw, crude;
The rust matches the wood like flesh. The green is dull and full of camouflage. The blue sinks as if it's orienting the borders. The purples flow like marrow from a forbidden fruit
I nail my colours into my spirit. I spill them within the inscriptions. As Atticus once said "when it comes to art, it's important not to hide the madness.." and I'm madness through and through, in surges; hopefully one of my waves flow through you..